Bonds That Tie
by HopelessWreck
Summary: No Batman verse A/U Slash and all that jazz. M-for gore mostly and language. Some sexual/adultish stuff later. Jason Todd's being framed for a murder he didn't commit. Newly promoted Detective Dick Grayson believes he's innocent, but he may be the only one. Now the two are stuck together trying to solve a mystery and save an old friend that might be next on the killer's list.


No Batman verse A/U

Slash and all that jazz.

M-for gore mostly and language. Some sexual/adultish stuff later.

Jason Todd's being framed for a murder he didn't commit. Newly promoted Detective Dick Grayson believes he's innocent, but he may be the only one. Now the two are stuck together trying to solve a mystery and save an old friend that might be next on the killer's list.

* * *

Bonds That Tie

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

Blood.

Either he's more drunk than he thinks he is or that really is blood on his floor.

Tammy, Teri, Trisha, whatever the fuck her name was, he's pretty sure she's passed out somewhere in the hallway. He remembers her loosing her shoes and stumbling along the carpet while fingering the hem of his shirt, but not much else. Either way, where ever she is, it's probably best she's not here. As much as he wants to blame the sight on his inebriated state, or some sick joke, he's pretty sure the stuff lying in his entryway actually_ is_ blood.

Blood that he was pretty sure hadn't been there when he left.

Blood, he doesn't know whose blood, but blood all the same.

Blood on his goddamn floor.

What. The. _ Fuck_.

He really wishes he could sober up faster than he is. He's just had too much. The sight is disturbing, alarming even, but not nearly as much as it _should_ be. Like it would be if he were clean and his mind wasn't covered in haze.

His mouth's still coated with the last tastes of alcohol, sharp and tangy. The sweet taste of poison. He might have overdone it.

_Really_ overdone it.

The night had been shit. Not worth the ringing in his ears and blurred vision. He knew the last shot had been overkill. The _whole _damn night had been a goddamn terrible. More booze didn't seem to equate to more fun. From the moment he'd stepped foot in the place he should have known better. He'd blame it on any number of bad lap dances and sloppy kisses, but nobody had _forced_ him to drink himself stupid.

He'd overdone it and now there was blood on his floor. And he doesn't know how or why.

Something falls from his hand. The bottle he's been nursing for the last hour or so crashes on the tile and erupts into dozens of tiny shards. The last amounts of liquid splashes against his boots. He watches it crash absently. It's well into the _too damn late to be night, really early morning_ hours and somebody in the complex probably would have heard it. The walls were like tissue paper and the door _was_ open. Still, he doesn't bothering worrying about that or bother trying to pick any of it up.

There's blood in his apartment, which is more important. There's blood in his apartment and no way can that be good.

He can't process it. Not fully anyway. Everything feels muffled and far away, but he knows it's wrong. The _whole_ scene is wrong. This shouldn't be here.

Neither should _he_.

He..he needs to call somebody. Right?

_Somebody like who dumb-ass? The police?_

He almost smacks himself for the idea.

_Fuck the police._

He snorts and moves in._  
_

The stench heightens and immediately hits his stomach. He can't help but recoil backwards and almost trips right onto the glass. Sharp copper and whatever else is leaked across the floors, it doesn't agree with the souring taste still lingering in his senses. It's a bad combination on his already ill stomach.

He gulps to keep down the bile in his throat. He can't lose it now.

One deep breath out and he manages to move forward slowly, being _somewhat_ steady and as careful as he can about not stepping or touching any of it. Using the wall as support he retrieves the knife in his pant leg, pleased that he doesn't face plant himself in the process. It's not exactly a large knife or his preferred choice of protection, but at least it's something. He can only hope his wits are about him enough that he'll actually be able to use it.

He attempts to hear for any movement, but his ears are pretty much useless. He wonders how quiet he's really being. Judging by the lamp he nearly topples, not very.

He thinks about calling out or something. For what or who, he doesn't know and his tongue is basically cement so the idea quickly dissipates.

The room feels like it's shrinking. Or maybe the blood is growing? In his state and with the rattling of his brain, he can't honestly tell. Whatever the case, it's feeling more than claustrophobic and way too damn hot. The blood is worse than he'd originally thought. It's fucking everywhere. Giant streaks of red. The doors knobs, the wall, the floor. Nearly every surface seemed to be smeared with it.

_This is bad._ he thinks. _Really, really bad_.

Coated, the blood's coating the old wooly carpet. Almost like it's been painted in morbid strips of gore. It's all seems like _a lot_. Way too much for one human to make.

_Who even has this much blood? __Is this normal? _

Didn't seem normal._  
_

Thick and still fresh, the long trail stretches far into the next room. His head turns as he follows it. The line moves in such a way that it almost looks like somebody was dragged. Dragged all the way through.

His head hurts. Between the smell and his stomach, the foul taste in his mouth, he knows his buzz is starting to wane. The combination is becoming a bit too much for him to handle. If this keeps up he _really_ might toss his shit.

What the hell was he doing?

He needs to go back, needs to get the hell out of here.

Needs to start this whole day over again.

Then he see it. His vision is somewhat better, not completely normal, but he still fucking sees it. _  
_

The reason for all the blood.

"Jesus."

It's worse, way worse than anything he could have imagined. It didn't seem possible but even more gore, parts both severed and not, stick out at odd angles, covered in a slick sheen of blood. He's seen a few dead bodies in his lifetime, but never like this. Partially dismembered, so much fucking blood and the _smell_. The smell is going to fucking kill him.

He stumbles towards the nearest wall and covers his mouth.

"Fck."

It's so damn hard to not vomit. He tries to keep his eyes trained elsewhere, but no matter how hard he tries, it just doesn't work. He can't help looking at the body. The body lying in the middle of the living room.

_His_ living room.

So many question flash through his mind.

Who was it?

Why were they in _his_ apartment?

And most of all..

Where was the person who did it?

Too many questions and_ no_ answers. He has absolutely no clue what the hell is going on. Who the fuck is on his floor and what the fuck he should do about it.

It's all so unreal.

Something hard shoves into the middle of his back. His breath hitches with the sound of a click. Despite the force against his spine, he doesn't loose his balance. He can tell by the weight exactly what it is.

A gun.

A whisper breezes past his ear. "Consider this a warning."

He doesn't catch the voice. It's deeply disguised, warped to a ridiculous degree. He's gonna guess by the tone and aggression it's a man, but he's not a hundred percent certain.

He's thinking it's the creep who did.._ all_ of this.

He grunts. Fucking bastard. Breaking into his place, messing it up, then threatening _him_? He turns, ready to smash a good amount of face with his fist, but the person is already gone.

They've either disappeared or he's hearing things.

Hearing things or not, one things certain. His visions definitely returning because he knows something for sure and that he's no longer alone.

It's not the mysterious murdering psychopath, which he's glad of. However, what or rather _who_ it is isn't much better.

Might be worse actually.

"Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air."

_Shit._

The cops.

Who invited them?

He tries to explain. Tries to comprehend why the fuck the fuzz is here. This can't look good for him. A dead body cut to shreds and a knife in his hand. Definitely not good. "I didn't..this isn't." It comes out as an incoherent slur.

"I said drop your weapon." The gun aimed at him is no joke, neither is the uniformed officer giving the command. The cop is deadly serious and he'd rather not get shot right now.

He's not happy about it, but he concedes. The knife falls and they immediately charge him.

They slap a pair of handcuffs on him and start reading his rights. He doesn't hear any of it too busy using every curse word he can think of, in any language he knows. Most are incoherent, a muddled mess of words.

All he knows is that he's being arrested..again.

It really blows that the one time he's caught for something this gruesome, _fucking_ murdering someone, he's completely innocent.

Sometimes life is a real bitch for Jason Todd.

* * *

xxx

* * *

Dick Grayson hated early mornings.

More appropriately he hated early morning phone calls. Especially on his day off.

Calling someone before the sun was up, that was rude. Calling someone on their day off, that was sacrilegious.

Tired, a little irritable and not at all ready to deal with whatever had been so important as to call him in, Dick's just wasn't feeling all that pleasant this morning.

Unfortunately, his attitude is tested right as soon as he enters the station. His newly assigned partner lays his fiery gaze within two seconds, like a wild animal seeking it's prey. Dick may have been feeling slightly crabby, but his attitude is nothing compared to the hateful man staring daggers, ready to rip him apart. Friendliness or at the very least gratitude was not something Sam Silverton did. Scowling and growling seemed to be his only two modes.

"_Grayson_." He hisses the name with disdain. "You're late."

Dick tries to keep his temper. He's not sure how he can be late on a day he wasn't supposed to be working, but whatever. Being that his eyes are still somewhat blurred from sleep and he hasn't even had his coffee yet, he feels his supposed _lateness_ is more than justified. "Good morning to you too." He tries for sarcasm, but it comes out more tired than anything. He rubs his burning eyes, not up for causing any waves despite his annoyance.

Silverton raises a brow in the cavernous mountain that is his forehead. He looks almost surprised. "What, no witty _quip_ to retort with this morning?"

Dick smiles, but it's tight. "Give me a couple of hours."

Silverton snorts. "Whatever." He picks up a file folder. "You'd better be worth the phone call up here cause we've got a doozy. I need you functioning so get your ass in gear." He doesn't say anything else, but Dick can feel his cold contempt as they begin their trek through the station to his office. He's either pissed at Dick's presence or that he's been forced to pick up a case he wants nothing to do with. Possibly both.

Being that he's the new guy in the group, Dick can't help the feeling, the want to prove himself, even in the eyes of Silverton. He doubts it will ever happen, but he hopes one day to gain at least some respect from the older man. Silverton's a prick, but he's still human.

Dick Grayson isn't used to people disliking him. Silverton's hatred only makes him more determined to prove himself.

In any way he can.

Once they reach the office Dick nods at the folder, ignoring Silvertson's obvious annoyance. "What is it?"

Silverton places a meaty hand on his desk, using the other to rifle through the manilla folder. He finally stops on a page and raises his black eyes. "I hope you're not squeamish." He hands a picture over before Dick can answer.

Dick's never classified himself as easily affected by violent images so he's a bit overwhelmed when he sees what Silverton gives him. The picture is brutal, obscenely so. It's a person, at least what remained of a person. He turns it horizontal to get a better look, but honestly can't tell where the body begins and where it ends. "Christ." He mumbles to himself. He's never seen a person twisted like that. A broken, bloody, mess barely recognizable as a human being. It's a sick, gruesome sight.

Silverton looks like he wants to berate Dick's naivety, but sighs instead. "Ever interrogated a murderer before?"

Dick's pretty sure he already knows the answer. This was one of his first cases after all. The last two had been nothing this serious. Simple petty theft from kids that loosened their tongues at Dick's friendly guise. "Not really." He stops. "Wait?" He looks at the picture and back up again. "You mean you already have a suspect?"

Silverton grimaces and nods. "Nasty guy with a rap sheet longer than both my arms. Not really being all that cooperative, but I'd put my life on it that he's the bastard who did this."

Dick's even more confused. "Then why bring me up here? If you already have.."

Silverton interrupts with a groan. "Because Grayson, as I said, the guys not exactly being cooperative." He leans closer, pushing a document towards Dick. "In fact, believe it or not, he's claiming innocence."

Dick raises a dark brow and scans the sheet. "Does he have an alibi?"

"Yeah." Silverton short laugh sounds like sandpaper. "It's not exactly air tight, but it's enough."

"But you still question it?" Dick asks.

Silverton raises a hand. "The guy was intoxicated when they brought him in, neighbor called from all the noise he was making. He had a knife in his hand and the murder happened in his apartment. Seems pretty cut and dry to me."

Dick's waiting for the _but_..

"Apparently some questionably employed _woman.." _Silverton quotes the word. "..claims he was with her all night and couldn't have possibly committed the murder. We checked into it and it's been verified by several other witnesses."

Dick nods. "And the knife he was holding?"

Silverton's face tightens. "Clean, so was the body." He sounds disappointed. "No DNA traces to link the two together. Either the guy's a master at cleaning his messes.."

"While intoxicated." Dick inputs.

Silverton ignores him. "Or he's.." His words fall off. He refuses to say it.

"Innocent?" Dick offers.

Silverton snorts. "Not likely. He's involved, one way or another."

Dick doesn't disagree. He moves on. "Who's the victim."

Silverton seems to perk at this. "See that's another thing." He rest himself at the edge of the desk. Dick's almost afraid it will break under his weight. Silverton readjusts his tie. "The guy who was butchered Tomas Turk, _Turk_ to his friends, seems like he was a bit of a celebrity around town."

Dick thinks then shakes his head. "I've never heard of him."

Silverton sneers. "_You_ wouldn't have. He was what we'd call underground status popular."

Despite Silverton's jab at his simple-mindedness, Dick knows exactly what that means. "Drug dealer?"

"Among other things."

Dick takes this in. "So you thinking a drug deal gone wrong." Seemed a little too simple to him.

Silverton nods. "What else could it be? Guys a drunk probably a drug addict too."

Dick's not so sure of that. "Did he test for anything?" Silverton hesitates and Dick has his answer. "I'll take that as a no."

"Doesn't mean shit, a scumbag's a scumbag."

Dick contains an eye roll at Silverton's close-minded way of thinking. "Either way, all we have is circumstantial so we can't exactly.."

Silverton shakes his head. "I want a confession out of him."

His intensity startles Dick. "Confession? But you said.."

"Even if he _didn't_ do it, he sure as hell knows something." Silverton doesn't sound convinced of anything but guilt. "I want _you_ to get something, a confession, information, _goddamn_ something out of him."

Dick can't help but point to himself, shocked that Silverton would need _his_ help. "Me?"

Silverton crosses his massive forearms. "No the_ idiot_ standing behind you." He snarks. He exhales. "I don't know why, but people seem to like you." He says it like it's a _bad_ thing. "He's closer to your age and maybe he'll be more open to you than he was to me."

Dick can't imagine how Silverton could get anyone to open up to him. Though he might be right about one thing. The suspect may know something that could help them. "Fine. If you think it'll help the case." He agrees.

Silverton barely grunts in what might be an appreciative way. "Here." He shoves another file folder at him. "Meet your new best friend."

Dick takes the folder, nearly getting a paper-cut in the process. He glances over the details. Silverton wasn't kidding, this guy did have quite a record. Nothing so bad as murder, mostly petty crimes not worth more than some small fines, a few days in a cell at the most. It didn't write him off as innocent, but there was surprisingly no counts of drug possession or selling. Nothing with drugs at all.

He eyes search for the last thing he needs. A name.

_Jason Peter Todd._

He almost drops the folder.

His reaction causes Silverton to look at him oddly. "What is it?" He must figure Dick's found something of interest.

To be fair, he has. Though not in the way Silverton would be hoping. "Nothing." Dick assures. "I just haven't eaten yet." He offers a fake smile. "Low blood sugar."

Silverton actually looks repulsed. "Jesus, you kids today. Are you done now or would you like me to find someone to wipe your ass for you too."

Dick waves him off, barely hearing anything he says. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Silverton gives him one last look before turning his back and exiting. His words linger. "Don't disappoint me Grayson."

Dick can't retort, not that he even wants to. He feels stuck, not sure what to do. Not sure if he wants to go into that interrogation room or not.

It's not like he has a choice, but things have just gotten a lot more complicated.

He supposes the name might be just a coincidence, but he doubts it._  
_

He really should have ignored that phone call.


End file.
